Like a Prayer
by Asidian
Summary: Tony's not the church on Sunday type, but desperate times call for desperate measures. When he says a half-assed prayer in a sticky situation, though, the last thing he expects is for it to be answered by the god of mischief.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes:I think this is going to be the first part of two… or maybe three, depending on how it goes. The idea was to loosely retell The Loki's Tale Ballad, the ballad in which the other gods try and fail to save a kid, wash their hands of it, and then Loki steps in and is a badass. This style ended up being a bit exhausting to maintain, though, so I guess I'll see whether I want to continue it or leave it here. :|a

* * *

"The peasant said to his lad:  
"Bid Lokki step in for me!  
I wish Lokki wert right here,  
And knew where to hide the boy!"  
Ere he said the word,  
There stood Lokki before the table."

-Lokka táttur (kvædi)

The Loki's Tale Ballad

* * *

"If I find you," came the voice, rumbling gravelly and menacing through the rubble, "I'm gonna keep you."

And that, Tony Stark decided, was the last straw. He could take a lot of shit, sure- it practically came with the job. With both of them, in fact. He could've had it printed on his business card years ago: Anthony Stark, genius inventor, superhero, putter up with of shit. But B-grade horror flick dialogue from the villain of the week was where he drew the line. If he was going to die, it wasn't going to be in a scene from a 60's film designed to get the girls clinging to their boyfriends' arms and shrieking in a darkened theatre.

Like it often did, though, the universe seemed intent on ignoring what he wanted in favor of some new, fantastically improbable set of challenges. The fact that this time they had come in the form of a movie buff's wet dream really shouldn't have surprised him, but he had to admit, the list was pretty impressive. The power had gone out, sure sign number one. Steve, earnest and oblivious, had uttered the words, "I'll be right back," and true to form hadn't been heard from since. They'd gotten their exposition from a creepy old guy who'd warned them away en route to the location. And finally, more than any of these things, the psychotic killer was rampaging through an abandoned school raving and promising to end him.

Okay, so the power was out over _most_ of the city, and Steve probably had problems of his own to deal with. And yeah, the old guy'd been one of the people whose houses got trashed when the robot with the batshit AI had smashed a hole in the one of the government's labs and escaped. And maybe psychotic killers _did_ threaten to kill him pretty much every day, anyway- even if most of them didn't happen to be rampaging constructs. Objections be damned, though, he recognized a B movie when he saw one. Maybe it was a little more Day After Tomorrow than Nightmare on Elm Street, but it still wasn't anything he'd pay to see in a theatre, and living it sure as hell wasn't going to be how he spent the last few hours of his life.

It was a good resolution. A great one, even. Some bargaining chips- or even a working suit of armor- would've gone a few hundred miles toward helping it along. For the time being, though, he was stuck: no blasters, no propulsion, no Jarvis, no teammates, and about an inch and a half from cardiac arrest. Just him and the criminal mastermind _du jour_, and Tony was feeling awfully human alone out here with pieces of his armor lying across the better part of a city block like the crumpled aluminum over those old stove-top popcorn bags that broke open at a touch.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Look, I know I'm not exactly the church on Sunday type," Tony breathed. His voice was a whisper, faintly audible. The sound of the approaching mechanized sideshow horror was becoming impossible to ignore, the squeal of metal, the crunch of rock. Sounded like that toaster he picked apart and put back together in second grade. "And maybe if I ever got in a confessional, it'd take the better part of a day to get through the whole list." He bent at the waist, all too conscious of the fact that the remaining armor was weighing him down. One hand found a rock- a pretty half-assed weapon, sure, but better than nothing if it came to that. And of course it was going to come to that. That was how his life worked. "But if any god's out there listening right now, it would be one hell of a chance to make me a believer."

A response came with startling immediacy, a whisper so near to his ear that he could feel the warm breath of the speaker. "Now, tell me. Is that an official prayer?" The voice was low and soft like dark silk, and if anything could have made this moment worse, it was recognizing who that voice belonged to- and then having his brain catch up and recognize _who that voice belonged to_. He and the universe, Tony Stark told himself, would have to have a little heart-to-heart about expectations.

He turned like a man in some horrific dream, just in time to see the perfect, confiding smile that Loki fixed on his face as he finished the question.

"Nope," Tony told him, after the beat in which his tongue untied itself from its knot, talked itself out of freezing in terror, and decided to function again. "Not a chance. That, my friend, is what you might call a sarcastic prayer. That is the kind of prayer that atheists in foxholes do not, in fact, utter."

"Truly? What a shame." The god of mischief examined his nails, trim and well-cared-for, and Tony had an instant in which he considered the fact that Thor's little brother displayed a remarkable level of grooming for an absolute nutjob. Immediately following, he had an instant in which he decided that stress had caused him to take leave of his senses, because if he was in the middle of a battle, disarmed and chatting with a supervillain and wondering about his nails, the Earth was probably due to end sometime next week. "It is not often, man of iron, that a god arrives on cue to answer one's prayers."

From the other side of the wall he'd hidden behind, there was something ear-shattering that sounded suspiciously like an explosion. Tony half-flinched, glanced back toward the place where the AI was still leveling everything in its path. "So rarely that you'll excuse me for not trusting it when it happens."

Loki spread one elegant hand in an as-you-wish sort of gesture, looking unconcerned. "You could always wait for my brother to arrive. He will doubtless perform admirably at picking up whatever pieces are left of you."

Tony fixed the god of mischief with a flat stare. In the background, there was a an ominous rumble and the creaking of ceiling beams. "I don't know if you know," he said, "but we've got a proverb here. Features a frying pan and a fire."

"I count myself familiar with it." The watchful green eyes sparkled with something suspiciously like amusement, and Tony was supremely unreassured. "But I believe in this particular case, Anthony Stark, your cook-pan itself has flared alight. I merely offer to extinguish it."

"Not a chance in hell," he told Loki, just as the wall behind him dissolved in a sudden flash of light and debris. The explosion lifted him bodily from the ground- slammed him with bone-shattering force into the floor. The parts of him not covered by the armor felt like he'd flash-fried them; the parts still obscured had the dubious honor of finding out what having bits of the Iron Man suit digging into them entailed.

"Got you," the AI was saying, the words too childish for the mechanical bass of its voice. Each of its steps rocked the world and made stars flash behind his eyes. "Got you, got you. Gonna _keep_ you."

"What do you know?" Tony wheezed, aware that there was blood on his lips. "We're not in hell, after all. Guess that's a yes."

And if his expectations were dashed merrily to bits when the god of lies actually followed through- when Loki, bringer of chaos, supervillain extraordinaire, Thor's sanity-challenged little brother- reached down to take his hand, the confusion was mercifully short-lived. The fact that his brain shut up because the world was too busy turning itself upside-down for him to think of very much else was, all things considered, a small price to pay.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: The style this is in continues to give me a headache. I'm not as happy with this chapter as I was with the first, but we'll see how the rest goes. It's looking like this will be four chapters, total. Please read the first chapter first, or this might not make much sense.

* * *

"Thou canst but imagine my dire need,  
The monster means to have my son dead.  
Harken, thou Lokki, I bid to thee,  
Thou shall hide mine son for me!"

"If I am to hide your son,  
You must do my bidding!"

-Lokka táttur (kvædi)

The Loki's Tale Ballad

* * *

In his life, Tony Stark had had a few rough awakenings. Right up there in the running for the worst was the time he'd consumed approximately twenty-seven gallons of straight malt whiskey before passing out in a bar in Isla Vista the weekend of Halloween. He'd awakened in the street an unknown amount of time later with a witch, a pregnant nun, a power ranger, and a burning couch, and his very first thought had been: "I'm going to die here." It had been inspired by the fact that his stomach felt as though it had been stirred with a cake mixer and his head like he'd gone a dozen rounds with Rocky Marciano.

This time topped it. This time topped it _effortlessly_. Because even though none of the furniture was actually on fire, and no particularly frightening costumes were involved, and he hadn't drunk roughly five times his own body weight, waking up with a goddamn Norse god of mischief standing over you creates its very own category of "rough." One thing was for sure- the first thought was the same, floating into his semi-conscious mind at the sight of considering green eyes and that ridiculous horned helmet. "I'm going to die here."

He wasn't sure which alarmed him more- the fact that he felt like he'd been flayed open medieval style, or the fact that he was lying prone on a very nice green-quilted bed and Loki was reaching straight for the part that hurt the worst.

"Do not trouble yourself overmuch," Thor's little brother was saying, voice calm and remarkably soothing. "Your injuries can all be seen to."

And see to, Tony decided as the man's hand rested gently atop a burned portion of his arm, must be alien god code for shred, salt, and season liberally with lemon juice, because holy hell that hurt, and he was screaming before he knew that he meant to, a stunning array of expletives with none of his usual wit. The insults slipped from his tongue as smoothly as well-greased robotics, intended for Loki's mother, his hair, his taste in clothing, those fucking horns, his sanity, his father, his _sadism_, and just as Tony was beginning to cycle around and repeat himself, the pain abruptly stopped.

"Calm yourself, human. My task is complete." The god of mischief fixed him with a level, deliberate stare. "You were not intended to be awake for that," he added, at last. "That spell can be... somewhat unpleasant."

"No shit," Tony panted. "Christ. If you're going to torture me, use a knife like a normal person."

"If I intended to torture you," Loki told him evenly, "you would be well aware by this point." The smile on his lips was a thing that made Tony want to run screaming, but running screaming when about ninety percent of you is injured tended to be a bad idea. It tended to be the kind of idea that made your body bemoan the fact that it had come attached to just such a brain, because who, oh who, would do something like that when all it needed was a little rest and relaxation?

Still, that smile wasn't fading, and Tony surreptitiously flexed his hands to check the damage, wondering if he could stand the pain in exchange for buying him a couple of feet of breathing room. To his surprise, the test run didn't yield up any resistance at all- not one twinge, not one day-after-a-workout-at-the-gym ache. Startled, he glanced down at his arm- and then at the other arm, and then at his legs.

He sat up half a beat later, gaping.

"The wonders of divine intervention," Loki informed him, that same knowing little smile in place.

As revelations go, it was pretty impressive, but unique situations called more for exemplary responses and less for his thoughts acting like a pingpong ball while he tried to puzzle out the god of lies. And so Tony rallied himself and reached for what he hoped was a wry tone. "Doesn't the deus ex machina usually beat the bad guy, too?"

With absolute nonchalance, Loki's hand lifted from where it lay beside him and reached through a slice in the air in the same way someone would check their pocket. It disappeared at the wrist, lost to sight wherever it had gone, and when it reappeared, it held what looked to be a prop from Hamlet, one of the fancy goblets from the scene where everyone drinks poison and keels over. He offered it to Tony. "All will yet be well, if you do as I say."

"It's funny you should mention orders." Taking a cup that practically screamed poison from someone he counted not just an enemy but an _arch_ enemy was probably pretty firmly in the category of things not to do if he wanted to live out the day. On the other hand, refusing it had its very own selection of potential unwanted results, chief among them pissing off a sorcerer with a well-thought-through-decisions record that was firmly in the red. After an instant's hesitation, Tony accepted it. "Cause I should probably bring up that I'm not very good at following them. That goes double when they're coming from someone who's tried to kill me."

The god of mischief met Tony's gaze, then let his eyes drop to the goblet. He raised both eyebrows pointedly. "Consider that if I wanted you dead, all I need have done is simply walk away."

Tony turned that thought over in his mind, looked at it from all sides the way he would have studied a 3-d model in his workshop. "So you need me around for something. Okay." He lifted the cup to his lips and took a drink- was marginally surprised to find that it contained very ordinary, very palatable water. His mouth was gritty and dry, and before he knew it he'd drained the lot. "What is it?"

Loki plucked the goblet away when it was empty, waved a hand and in an instant it had faded from view. His smile was thinner this time- more bitter. "Truly, my brother's people haven't the sole claim to unkind assumptions. I do not suppose you would believe me capable of mercy?"

"If you think I'm gonna buy that, you're crazier than we thought," Tony told him. "And we thought you were pretty crazy already. I'm talking top of the list, here. The Shining crazy. Axing in doors and hitting people with a roque mallet crazy." He paused and licked his lips. "Got any more water?"

The god of mischief gave a snort that may have been laughter. His hand disappeared again, returned with a new goblet. It was not the same one as before; this one, Tony was amused to note, had what looked like emeralds embedded around the lip. They made up the eyes in the tiny carved snakes. "Humans have such odd standards of mental instability."

"What can I say? I fight people like you every other week." Tony helped himself to the snake cup and drank again, just as deeply as before. "I can afford to make a ranking system. I've got a lot to choose from."

Loki watched him lower the goblet and extended his hand palm up, expectant. "My mental state, you realize, has very little to do with this."

"Uh huh. The same way the kid with the magnifying glass has nothing to do with that smear on the pavement." He considered the cup- considered Loki's hand- and then held on to it, just to be contrary. "Okay, yeah, so you don't want me dead this very second. Doesn't mean you're not after something else, instead. So what's your motive?" Tony reached over to knock on the wood of the bed's headboard, emphasizing his words. "Come on, you're the god of lies, right? Convince me."

And oh, man, was he convincing. Because when Loki turned away like that, when his eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips pressed together in precisely that way, it made him almost look... melancholy. Self-deprecating. He should have been born on Earth. He would have made a killing as an actor. "Would you believe I was feeling nostalgic?"

The god of lies, indeed. "For psycho robots tearing down the school?

"For something long before your time, man of iron." With the words, the typical Loki-lord-of-everything-master-of-bizarre-plots look of arch superiority slipped into place, settled and took hold faster than jolly green giant form Banner could bring down a wall.

Tony made a show of taking in a breath and letting it out slow- a sigh of exasperation. He leaned back like he was enjoying himself, like he paid house calls on their nemeses Monday through Thursday and sometimes on Saturday afternoons. "If you think cryptic bullshit is going to win me over, you're not as smart as everyone seems to think you are."

"Should I be flattered?" And maybe he shouldn't have moved over, after all, because Thor's little brother was sitting down next to him in the recently made space, looking for all the world like he owned the place. And, well, he did- but that was besides the point. The point was, when Tony Stark started a bluff, he followed through, and following through meant that leaping up and retreating to the far side of the room was absolutely out of the question.

He looked the god of mischief straight in the eye, and he thought cool thoughts. Frozen yoghurt. Penguins. Natasha's "Don't try me, Stark," look. "You should realize I'm still telling you _no_."

"Allow me to explain it in a more direct fashion, since you seem under the impression that you have a choice." Loki extended a pale, elegant hand; he took back the empty goblet the way a man attending a play might brush lint from his jacket. "We are in a place between worlds. Your armor stands ashamble, and even did it not, you cannot fly the paths my magic can open. Beyond that, you cannot face the construct that awaits you when we return."

"...fine. Let's say I can't get out unless you let me out." Tony gave the snake cup a brief, irritated glance. He hadn't especially wanted to keep it, but since the choices for rebellion had been whittled down to a grand total of one, it kind of sucked to have that one taken away. "Let's say I even believe you're trying to be a good little helper. I still don't see where I come in. If you can find the way back without me, and you can wave your wand at the robot and zap it when we get there, what orders am I supposed to be taking, exactly?"

Loki turned the goblet in own hand, considering. He was watching the little carvings, Tony thought; his eyes were down, focused intently "Would you truly wish your comrades in arms to know how the creature of metal met its demise?" Talk about a leading question. There was only one way to answer that, and he didn't trust the thoughtful look on his captor's face enough to say it out loud. The silence rolled out like a carpet, unfilled. "I did not suspect so," Loki answered himself, eventually. "We both agree, then, that it is better for one such as I not to have been involved. You shall receive the answer to your prayers, and I... I shall maintain my reputation."

Tony snorted. "Sounds about as safe a gamble as slots in Vegas."

Loki must have been doing his homework, because the cultural reference that would have stopped Thor in his tracks didn't garner so much as a puzzled quirk of an eyebrow. "And yet you do not deny me any longer." With a careless gesture, the god of mischief banished the second goblet, as well.

"Yeah. Congrats. I'm not denying you any longer." At least Tony wasn't planning on admitting to it. He could play along for now, see how far looking cooperative got him. It had to be farther than the world's strangest battle of one-liners and disappearing dishware- but that wouldn't take much. "Doesn't mean I'm not imagining the "stick knife here" sign I just painted on my back."

"The knife," Loki assured him, "will not come. At the least, not until again we stand as enemies."

God of lies, Tony Stark reminded himself. He was talking to the god of lies. But if that wasn't sincere, he'd just witnessed the painting of the Mona Lisa of fakery. "So I've got a couple days before the double-cross?"

He was duly ignored. "Listen well, man of iron. If you would have my aid, this is what you must do."

"Straight to business," Tony intoned, fixing his captor with what he hoped was an innocently aggrieved expression. He was going for one part kicked puppy, three parts man who'd just been scorched half to death, two parts heroically snide captured hero. "No refreshments? I don't even get any more water?" He threw in the grin afterward, like the ice after mixing. It was a great grin: careless, lazy, way too presumptuous. It was the grin that was going to drive Rhodey to premature grey.

It was also, apparently, a grin that the god of mischief felt free to ignore in favor of giving directions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes**: Okay, almost done here. Sorry this chapter took a bit longer; I stopped midway to work on another fic and got distracted for a bit. I think one more chapter will just about finish this up. The transformation part in the beginning here was a bit strange to run with, but since it was such a big deal in the ballad I'm retelling loosely, I kept it in. Hope you guys enjoy!

* * *

"He scurried right through his father's boathouse,  
The giant after him in hot pursuit.  
The giant got himself stuck in the window,  
Smashing his head on the iron bar.  
Loki then did not bide;  
He struck off one of the giant's shins."

-Lokka táttur (kvædi)

The Loki's Tale Ballad

* * *

Here it was at last: the long-awaited grand finale to the B-grade horror film of the century.

As Tony lay motionless amidst the rubble in a school building that had been for the most part demolished during his stopover in whatever dimension it was that Loki kept his bed and dishware, he reflected that he wasn't a good fit for this role. He'd never seen himself in the final survivor part, but here he was- and him not young enough, not blonde enough, not highschool virgin enough. Not to put too fine a point on it, but at the moment, not human enough.

Because stage one of the plan had been a transformation, and he'd had to take a good long look at the list of things he considered himself after that. Genius, undoubtedly. One suave bastard, sure. Irresponsible asshole? Check and check. But really. Magically shapeshifted scrap of _rock?_ That was a new one. If by new he meant "really goddamn bizarre."

And so here he was, hiding in plain sight. He had no itchy nose to scratch to give him away, or feet cramping up from staying crouched too long. For that matter, he had no nose and no feet. No sense of anything from anywhere, and he was still trying to get used to the idea that he couldn't do anything that people did when they were stuck in situations like these- _normal_ things, like hyperventilate or have a heart rate that would send any good doctor scrambling for their prescription pad.

Speaking of hearts, he had an arc reactor to account for. Was it a little grain of sand now, in the center of his lump of rubble? Had it fallen to the ground when he transformed, unincluded? He couldn't see it, but that didn't mean it wasn't around anywhere. It wasn't like he could move to get a better view; whatever part of the spell Loki had cast to let him be aware of his surroundings despite having no eyes seemed pretty fixed.

Tony listened to the robot in the background, listened to the shake rattle roll of destruction. He wondered how long it would be. Loki had been gone a couple minutes already- had left him here with the explanation that the "giant of metal could not find what it desired if what it desired was not there to be found." And so far, so good. The thing had nearly stepped on him once, but it had passed by three times and hadn't spared him a second glance.

Now he just had to wait for the god of lies to finish up the prep work and change him back so Tony could take the spotlight. And as long as he tried not to think too hard that it was the god of _lies_ he was waiting on, he'd be fine. Because wouldn't this be a knife in the back to fit the one he'd been waiting for? One final fuck you from Thor's batshit little brother, and here lies Tony Stark, beloved hero to millions, lost in the rubble of a school while the Avengers passed over him in the rescue search. Lost in the rubble when they rebuilt, sealed into concrete, condemned to spend eternity without one single drink. And man- eternity was a long time.

It was exactly as he was finishing up that thought that Loki's voice came, near to his- well, not his ear. Close by, anyway. "The basement has been readied for your use, man of iron."

He could feel the cool pressure of Loki's fingers, bizarre as that was- could feel them even though he had no skin. And then the transformation came again in reverse, all creepy prickly tingling and things bending and stretching where they shouldn't, and Tony was just thinking that this must be how a werewolf feels when suddenly he was on the ground at Loki's feet, gasping with honest to god lips and lungs. The arc reactor, when he pressed his palm to it, was right where it was supposed to be.

And maybe he did take a little longer getting up from his knees than he usually would, but he didn't take as long as all _that_, not anywhere near long enough for Loki to smile that irritatingly knowing little smile. "Had I thought you inclined to worship, I would have made certain an altar was available."

"Don't I need candles for that?" Tony made a show of patting down the remains of his armor- paused when he realized the armor was not, in fact, present any longer. He was in civilian clothes, a t-shirt and jeans that didn't seem to be his; as he stood, he made the switch from checking imaginary pockets to checking real ones without a hitch.. "What do you know, none on me. Guess I've gotta pass. Hey, you didn't see my suit around, did you? Shiny, red, took the centerfold in Popular Mechanics three issues running?"

"It remains a rock," Loki told him, pleasantly. "I took the precaution of providing something a touch lighter, considering the damage it had sustained."

Tony lifted not just one eyebrow, but both. "So you're telling me you can drag me between worlds, miracle heal, change my body into whatever you want it to be, and you can't patch up a bit of tech?"

There was something in Loki's eyes then, some mingled spark of mischief and challenge. "Claim not that there are things I cannot do. Think rather, mortal, that perhaps I showed you a kindness." The god of lies spread elegant fingers as though laying a gift out for a friend, a magnanimous gesture if ever there'd been one. It was the kind of after-you motion that he might've expected from a knight at Medieval Times- or from Steve, so full up with good intentions that they leaked out around the edges and puddled at his feet. "Magic is distasteful to you, is it not?"

Tony didn't miss a beat. "So are pickles, but even they go on hotdogs sometimes."

Loki's laughter bubbled up, high and delighted, short the edge of hysteria that it often contained. For a fleeting second, Tony found himself wondering whether Thor's little brother was enjoying himself- was as genuinely pleased with the situation as he seemed to be. Because that was the kind of laughter usually reserved for kids climbing trees or playing baseball, and hearing it in this place was a little like realizing Van Gogh had painted a toaster in the middle of Starry Night. Before he had time to examine that too closely, though, before he had time to wonder if he ought to be worried, the sound had attracted unwanted attention.

"Got you," said the boom of the AI's voice chip, right on cue. "Got you! I'm gonna _keep_ you!" Its footsteps shook the ground as it walked, and Tony had just long enough to break into motion, sprinting over the uneven ground, before it was upon the place where Loki remained, calm and collected and utterly unbothered. The robot passed him by without so much as a twitch of a mechanical sensor, and it was in precisely that moment that Tony Stark decided life was terribly unfair.

"To your right," the god of mischief called after him helpfully, and Tony cursed as he ducked the laser spearing out after him, wove behind a block of stone, and hurtled to the right.

The stairs to the basement were, shock of all shocks, broad and well-lighted and properly maintained, making them officially the first thing that had gone right for him today. How they'd managed to stay free from rubble despite the fact that the building had crumbled around them- how they managed to be well-lighted when the _power_ was out- remained one of life's great mysteries for all of five seconds, right up until he pictured the god of mischief cheerfully setting lightbulbs aglow without bothering to rewire them. Then, suddenly, it made perfect sense.

He took the stairs three at a time, leaping down them without pausing and wishing that he had his suit- that he had even just the shields, because that laser certainly _had_ struck the wall about an inch from his head, had left a calling card with his name on it imprinted in what was left of the wall. "Not today," he muttered under his breath as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "I've got other plans."

He saw it rising up out of the darkness, exactly where Loki had said it would be: the glittering, sharpened end of a broken beam, arranged so that it faced the stairs. And maybe it was just a little too sharp, like someone had gotten a bit over-enthusiastic with a whetstone, and maybe it was positioned just a little too center, and maybe it really looked more like a spear than a beam, but hey. He was the last guy to begrudge someone a show.

Tony ran beneath it without pausing for breath, without stopping to bother with what-ifs or to suppose about a double-cross- and, just as Loki had predicted, the AI rumbled along behind him, unheeding, right up until it rammed its metal head straight through the spike. The fact that the head didn't repel the spike in the first place, that it didn't simply glance aside as the robot passed, called the laws of physics into question and then beat them upside the head with a whole new book of rules.

But improbable as it seemed, there it was, larger than life above him. The squeal of metal was deafening, and the sound of the robot's voice as it slowly wound down became a scratchy parody, more horrifying than the original deep bass for the same reason a toy clown is about twenty times more terrifying than a real one. The robot's limbs flailed, regularly at first- and then more slowly.

It really did make an impressive picture like this, framed as it was by the walls, backlit against the stairway. Tony wondered momentarily whether Loki had put thought into it, and instantly wished he hadn't, because that meant the trickster had put thought into it for _him_. After all, no one else would be seeing it from this angle. Or seeing it at all.

As though summoned by the direction Tony's thoughts had taken, the god of mischief appeared at his side, flickering into view like that one unreliable bulb on the Christmas tree every year. "Sufficient?"

"Not bad," Tony agreed, grudgingly. "Got one problem, though."

"Oh?" The way Loki regarded him was like nothing so much as a creature of prey, smug and content and well-fed. "Enlighten me."

Tony waved a hand at the stairway- at the limbs that now took up most of it, threshing the air as the power ran out of the construct's body. "I'm not looking forward to getting my head caved in on the way out. Bad for the hair." He smoothed his hands together, ran both over his head as though slicking it into the trickster's usual style. "You know how it goes."

"I most assuredly do not," Loki replied primly. But he was moving forward all the same, considering the wreckage around him before bending to retrieve a long, jagged-edged piece of scrap metal. He held it in both hands, for it was wider at the base, like a trash-heap sword without a handle. Then the god of mischief reached over- calm as sitting down for a pleasant afternoon tea, complete with scones and jam and whatever the hell else you have for tea- and cut off the robot's right leg. It took him two tries to get through it; the metal dented and screeched and responded properly to the laws of physics, this time, the way it should if someone were to do a thing like hack off a metal leg without the help of magic. And Tony felt himself go suddenly ashen, because wasn't Thor's little brother supposed to be the _runt_ of the family?

But there it was, lying in a twisted heap on the ground, and the god of mischief was turning to face him with the sort of smile a gentleman would offer to his date at the opera. He spread one hand wide toward the newly-made opening. "Please," said Loki. "After you."

And Tony ducked beneath the still-twitching shell of the robot, ascended the stairs with the charged, electric feeling he often got when danger was near. If this was a movie, it would be the part where the monster popped up for one final scare. It would be the part where Loki got that knife ready to stick in his back.

He turned to face Thor's little brother when they were on ground level once more, told his voice that he wanted it flat and dry and sarcastic, and to his great wonder, it came out exactly as planned. "Thought the idea was that no one would know you were involved."

Loki inclined his head, not so much as a hair out of place despite his recent display of strength. "I believe that is still, as you say, the idea."

"Uh huh." Tony made a show of looking back down into the basement. "Wanna tell me how I'm supposed to explain ripping off that thing's leg without my suit?"

Loki laughed again- not the fork-on-a-plate-bad-guy-has-flipped-his-lid-duck-and-cover cackle- not even the careless laugh from before- but something amused and confidential, like they were friends sharing a secret. "I may be the liesmith, man of iron, but I do not wish to craft _every_ lie."

And with that, as simply as he had appeared, the god of mischief was gone. He did not fade from view but simply went, like a computer screen in a power outage, leaving Tony Stark standing alone in the ruins of what had once been a school.

He surprised himself by waiting for nearly ten minutes to see whether the trickster would return before he set out to find his team.


	4. Chapter 4

Lokki fared with the boy back homeward,  
The wife and the peasant gave them embrace.  
"Here I have the young son of yours."

-Lokka táttur (kvædi)

The Loki's Tale Ballad

* * *

All told, it was easier than he thought it'd be- and considering Tony Stark was a man often accused by the unflappable Ms. Potts of thinking the world fell over itself every morning in a contest to see who could bring him breakfast, that was saying something.

With two teammates whose technical knowledge extended about as far as pressing the "power" button on the remote and Banner big and green and not thinking too straight, no one thought it was a little funny the way that spike had lodged in the head of one very skewered robot. The severed leg took a bit of work, but some rapid-fire mechanical jargon about how he'd wired the repulsors in his left glove to run temporarily on the power line below the school tied up those loose ends in a neat little bow. As for the suit, well- he took it off, of course. _Some_ people couldn't bench press cars, thanks very much, and walking was a tall order when you're all wrapped up in dead weight.

Where did it go? He was a genius, not a clairvoyant. Psychic helpline had a 24/7 number, though. And he'd whipped out his cell and found the number- had put it to the ear of a very confused Steve Rogers and told him that they had master psychics standing by _right now_. It was worth it just to hear their illustrious leader tell the phone that actually, no thank you, ma'am, I don't think I need a tarot card reading, after all.

So that was that. His ride back to the tower was not quite as high-style as usual- somehow, being tucked under the arm of the Norse god of thunder just didn't have the appeal of sleek, red, and smoother than the bottle of cognac he kept stashed in the cabinet in his bedroom- but against all odds, he was home and in one piece. Despite the fact that about an hour ago, he'd been the poster boy for a hero workplace safety campaign, all-over burns and helpless at the hands of public enemy number one- here he stood, not a mark on him. It was kind of nice for a change, actually, to come home feeling like he _hadn't_ been trampled by an elephant.

It would have been better if his brain wasn't busy tying itself in knots trying to work out the ulterior motives, but hey, you couldn't have everything. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the other foot to fall- and when it did, that bitch was gonna be in steel-toed boots.

But, miracle of miracles- and didn't all religious connotations have a whole new meaning to Tony these days?- the other foot _didn't_ fall. There was time to replace the suit he'd lost, time to tinker with aerodynamics, time to add a compartment with a gun not powered by the arc reactor, so if he ever got trapped in a stomped-out school with a killer robot again, he'd be set. There was time to go after Hydra for breaking into one of Shield's labs, and to sign those papers Pepper'd been following him with for weeks, and to start work on a little kitchen robot that made pizza- and if he had time to waste on pizza robots, Tony Stark thought, maybe the universe had finally seen his side of things and was doing its best to make up for past wrongs.

Typically, it was the day after he'd thought it that the boot he'd been waiting on came and kicked the door down.

"Sir," said Jarvis, as he rocketed across the city in pursuit of Doom's newest creation, "the energy signature you requested tracked has been detected."

"Yeah? Gimme details." Tony lifted one hand and shot a bolt of energy into the little bunch of wires that exposed itself every time the robot banked left. Sloppy work, Tony thought with satisfaction, and proceeded to exploit the hell out it.

"Near the corner of Delancey and Grand, sir." There was a fractional pause as Jarvis processed more data. "The target is currently on the roof of the Day's Rest cafe."

Three short blasts followed as Tony let loose Space Invaders-style, and there was a gratifying shower of sparks when the Doombot started its downward spiral. "See that, Cap?" he said into his intercom. "I started the Fourth of July early for you."

"Hold onto those fireworks," Steve's voice replied in his ear, equal parts amused and exasperated. "If yours is down, that should be the last of them. Regroup at City Hall and let's get one of these things back to your lab so you can pick it apart."

Tony was only half-listening, really- he was busy keeping an eye on the glowing green dot that Jarvis had marked on his tracking display. It flashed like it didn't give a damn, not budging an inch. "The target appears to be immobile, sir."

"Thanks, Jarvis. Needed the help on that one." But it'd got Tony's attention, all right. _Loki_, sitting out in the open like a neon billboard advertising an all-night strip joint? Loki, hanging out without a disguise in the middle of a busy shopping street? That boded about as well as Banner driving in rush-hour traffic. To Steve, he said, "Gonna give this one a miss, if it's all the same to you. Pick up a souvenir for me, would you?"

And before there was a chance for Steve to reply that it _wasn't_ all the same to him, Tony'd cut the comm and was gunning it across the skies of New York toward Delancy and Grand. Yeah, it probably wasn't the best move he'd ever made, rushing off to to see what Thor's crazy little brother was up to without backup, but if the rest of the team was around he wouldn't get to ask the questions he wanted to ask. Maybe there'd be answers; maybe there wouldn't. Maybe he should know by now that every time Loki's mouth was moving lies were coming out, but what the hell. He figured it was worth a shot, anyway- and no one had ever tried to claim he wasn't a gambling man.

The roof of the Day's Rest cafe, sadly, did not quite live up to expectations. Tony didn't know exactly what those expectations had _been_, but they well and truly were not met. Some part of him had anticipated the patently ridiculous- that the god of mischief would be out there working on his non-existent tan with a glass of lemonade and whatever passed for those tacky fabric sun umbrellas in Asgard. But on first pass, he didn't spot the trickster at all. The second pass was a no-go, too, even though that little green dot had stayed right where it was on his tracking screen, and that set alarm bells to ringing.

He landed with the heavy thump of metal on concrete and scanned the area- picked up signs of life from near the chimney and started toward it. Small wonder he'd missed the slippery bastard; from that angle, he'd be invisible from the air. "Olly olly oxen free," Tony said. "Mr. Stark calling for a Mr. Laufeyson." He lifted one hand and pointed it toward the chimney, prepared to fire. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

There was a pause longer than the one he'd thought would come, and then Loki's voice, sounding oddly distant. "He isn't in just now, regrettably. Do see yourself out, won't you?"

Tony rounded the chimney with all the caution and weapon-readiness he'd come to love in the spy films of his youth- and drew himself up short at the sight that greeted him. For there lay the god of mischief, crumpled against the roof's only shelter, arm slung across his stomach and face not just pale but bones-soaked-in-bleach white. Beneath him, the hot concrete was staining slowly red as Loki's blood leaked out to do the paint job.

"Jesus," said Tony, and put the face plate up. The hand that had been raised to attack lowered in the moment of surprise. "The hell happened to you?"

"A miscalculation," the trickster managed, "which is no concern of yours." The words were weak but carefully formed, each syllable measured out the way a drunk pays closer attention to his enunciation when he's trying to seem sober. " I was hardly in jest with regards to you leaving, you realize."

"Hey, what do you know?" Tony cocked his head, as though it were something he'd just realized himself. "I don't take orders from crazies bleeding out on rooftops."

"I was under the impression," the god of mischief rasped, with what might have been soft laughter if not for the unhealthy gurgling sound that came with it, "that you were not partial to orders at all."

"Good memory." Tony flashed his most irritating grin and stepped forward- looked the trickster over for weapons to hand or any obvious signs of a trap. There weren't any that he could see, not that that meant much with Loki, but he crouched anyway to try and get a look at the wound. Part of him was screaming that he hadn't had an idea this bad since the week he'd tried equipping DUM-E with a voice chip- and another part of him was screaming that he would be the world's biggest asshole if he walked away. "Looks like someone else could use a little divine intervention about now," he said, to shut his thoughts up. "Better get out the rosary- I think it starts 'Tony Stark, who art in heaven...'"

Loki's face wasn't just pale, up close; it was creeping over into grey, and _that_ couldn't be a good sign. "Is it absolutely necessary to spend my final moments listening to you attempt to be clever?"

"Attempt? Come on, now. _Be_ clever. It's do or not do- there is no try." He snapped the faceplate down and bent forward- spent a minute working out how this was going to happen if he wanted the use of his hands to keep his flight steady. "Lucky you, though- we won't find out today. Dying's called on account of rain." He regarded the downed Asgardian again and firmly quashed the part of him that hadn't shut up about how stupid it is to believe a god of lies. "Think you can hang on for a quick spin?"

That sound came again, quieter, and definitely more gurgle than laughter this time. "I do not require transport. You are mistaken, man of iron; there is no prayer here to be answered."

"Good thing I don't do prayers, then. Only favors." He worked one of the suit's arms around Loki's shoulders and tried to lever him up- help him to stand. The words probably would have made more of an impact, Tony thought, if the guy he was meant to be rescuing hadn't passed out halfway.


	5. Chapter 5

"Lie in there, do not pain,  
When I call you, come out to me!  
Lie in there, don't you fear,  
When I call you, come out hither!"

-Lokka táttur (kvædi)

The Loki's Tale Ballad

* * *

"Hey, doc," said Tony, as he stuck his head into Bruce's office and saw what he could see. There was no sign of recent disaster, point one in his favor; no sign was _always_ a good sign. "What's the mood threat level today? Ultraviolent violet? Rampagious red? Mellow yellow?"

Bruce favored him with that peculiar look he seemed to have perfected- that mix between you-are-absolutely-out-of-your-skull-crazy and your-winsome-sense-of-humor-has-charmed-me-anyway. "I'm doing okay. The, uh, the acupressure points seem to be helping."

The smile he flashed the good doctor was a little too wide maybe, because Bruce's eyebrow was creeping up in a way that said he very much expected more of the crazy to be forthcoming. "Great," Tony said, and reached casually to grab hold of the first aid bag on the shelf by the door. "Want to test that?"

* * *

"Tony," said Bruce and bent his head to rest it against the wall as he leaned there. "_Jesus_, Tony." The man flapped one hand at the scene in front of him, a little helplessly, and spared a quick glance for the heartrate monitor on his wrist. "What is he _doing_ here?"

"I know, I know. All that green just doesn't work with the décor." Because the god of mischief was exactly where Tony had left him, sprawled out on the work table with a few spare gears and a half-finished robot. He was still fully armored, cape spread out beneath him and draping down onto the floor, and his skin was waxy pale, blood seeping out to pool on the gleaming metal. All told, it was not a good look on him. Not to put too fine a point on it, but it was the kind of look that waved warning flags that a coffin and a choir might be handy to have around. "Gotta say, though, red works way less. You wanna help me make sure it stays in him instead of all over my table?"

There was a shaky little laugh, and Bruce ran a hand over his eyes. "Yeah," he said at last. "Yeah, sure." The man was not in top form; the sweat stood out on his forehead, and tendons were visible in his wrist when he clenched his hand. But he wasn't huge and green and making holes the size of the Empire State in the wall, and that was about all Tony had asked for, anyway. "You want to give me some hint as to, uh. How he ended up in your workshop?"

Bruce didn't let the question stop him from moving toward the table, though- didn't start with the scolding the way Cap would've or bellowed useless threats like he'd have gotten from Thor. Not Bruce. Bruce was all business, and when Tony let go of the breath he'd been holding, he told himself he owed his teammate a night or five out on the town for this one. Fancy drinks with umbrellas, ladies in sequin dresses, the whole deal. "I brought him in."

"Uh huh." His teammate's hands hovered a moment, trying to work out which of the straps on the armor ought to be the _first_ of the straps on the armor, and then he started pulling at them anyway, unlacing and unbuckling with a single-minded determination. Doing a damn sight better than Tony would have, too. It was like Jenga with leather and chrome. "And you don't think Fury wants to see him?"

"I think Fury needs to figure out he can't always get what he wants," Tony replied breezily, even as he opened up the first aid bag and started fishing out the bandages. "It'll be a learning experience. You, me, him- we'll all take something away from it. Now, I can't promise Aesop-level, here, I don't do morals, but-"

"Tony." He glanced over to find Bruce looking at him, one hand held out. "I need those bandages."

And holy hell, _did_ he. Bruce had finally got the armor open, and inside it looked like some poor bastard who'd been working on made-for-tv movies his whole life had gotten ahold of a silver screen budget for the first time and blew the whole thing on special effects for gore.

Feeling vaguely queasy, Tony handed over the roll of bandages and then looked determinedly away, ignoring the proceeds as well as he was able except for the requests that came: apply pressure here, hold this in place, go get the little box inside the cabinet in my office.

Quite some time later, when Bruce finally stood back, hands looking like a preschooler who'd just finished finger-painting a Valentine's Day craft, Tony took it as the all-clear sign. And sure enough, from the trickster's shoulders to his waist, there was more cloth than skin to see, though some of the clinical white was already starting to bleed through red. "So what's the verdict?" he asked- because really. He was pretty sure it was physically impossible to lose that much blood and not need a hole six feet deep.

Bruce gave him one of those looks- one of those deceptively mild I-am-a-zen-master-all-shall-be-laid-bare-before-me looks- and walked over to the sink to wash his hands. "Not guilty, evidently."

Tony opened his mouth and then closed it again. "Not what I meant."

There was the sound of running water and a few quick pumps of the soap bottle. "I kind of figured."

"Okay. Okay, fine." Tony watched the back of the man's head, bowed in concentration as he scrubbed- probably blood stuck under his fingernails or something. "I owe him one. You remember the robot that trashed that school?" He waited for the backward glance and the nod before he kept going. "It fried me crispy. I was popcorn shrimp- Long John Silver's lunchtime special, extra ketchup."

Bruce shook his hands and shut off the water, grabbing for the towel as he turned. "You weren't hurt that day," he said, but it sounded like a question. It should be a crime, Tony thought privately, for anyone to look so calmly concerned- and yet there Bruce was, a perfect 1600 on the SAT score for the art of it.

"I wasn't." Tony jerked one thumb toward the trickster. "Tall dark and crazy over here patched me up. Waved his magic wand and away it went." Yeah, sure, there had been the part in the middle where he'd felt like he was re-inventing the rack, but adding that when the end goal was _not_ getting Loki handed over to Shield seemed like a bad idea. "Said he was feeling nostalgic, whatever the hell that means. Anyway... he gonna make it?"

"If he was human and you were family," Bruce told him, "I'd say you should probably get in your goodbyes while you had the chance."

The assessment made him look the trickster over again: the mass of bandages that looked like some kid had gotten overly enthusiastic about being a mummy this Halloween, the shallow rise and fall of the Asgardian's chest. It was strange to realize that he would probably actually care if it stopped. If the bastard died now, he would have to go the rest of his life knowing he'd had a prayer answered by Thor's baby brother- and while he'd gotten pretty good over the years at sweeping the things he didn't want to think about too hard under the carpet so his conscience didn't see, he suspected an eye for an eye would be a lot easier to manage.

"But he's not human," Tony said, testing the words, sticking a thermometer in the optimism level.

The doctor sighed, and began to put supplies back into his first aid kit. "No," Bruce conceded. "He's not human."

* * *

By the time Bruce returned to change the bandages, Tony had gotten the god of mischief off his worktable and onto a rolling cot. He'd had DUM-E spray down the area to get rid of the blood, and he'd told Jarvis not to let anyone past security except for Dr. Banner. And then, practical matters firmly taken care of, he'd set aside a little bonus time so he could wonder exactly how screwed he was going to be if Loki woke up and found himself in Avengers Tower.

It was the kind of thought you don't want to have, because it hangs a left past terrible, drives straight through common sense, and parks itself in inappropriately funny. The worries _started_ as reasonable enough: a massive explosion, after all, is a perfectly sensible way to die. Magic, considering the man in question, was right up there next to it. But as the hours passed and the most obvious options exhausted themselves, Tony's brain decided it had gotten bored with the realistic and proceeded to begin making up exciting new options. He had just finished with Loki turning them all into exotic animals and selling them to the zoo when Bruce reappeared to pronounce the unconscious trickster healing nicely.

"So how long are we looking at, here?" Tony asked, and waggled a wrench at him. "A week? A month?"He paused to peer into the chest cavity of his pizza-making robot- reached two fingers in to move something around. "Am I gonna have to get one of those hospital partitions put in?"

Bruce shrugged, and he managed to look somehow amused and put upon both at once. "If he keeps up at this rate, I'd say he'll be fine by tomorrow."

"By _tomorrow_?" Tony looked up sharply from the wiring. "Most of his insides were _outside_."

Bruce shrugged. It was an oddly apologetic gesture. "And now they're back inside again."

Christ. No wonder they'd never managed to take Thor's little brother out of commission. "Good to know I'm not gonna have to make up the guest room. I bet he's a fan of the Tim Burton school of design." Tony's fingers dipped back inside the robot and began twisting wires together. "And what the hell would I do with that much black velvet after I got rid of him?"

One side of his teammate's mouth twitched upward, a lop-sided smile. "Keep it for the next time you decide to host a super villain."

"Hey, this is a one-time only deal. Jarvis, I need that screwdriver this century." Tony put a hand out blindly and held it open, expectant; the slim, cool metal of the tool settled into it obligingly "You know- one ticket, one entry. You go out, you can't come back in without the little blacklight stamp. And I'm not giving out the blacklight stamp."

The reply took awhile in coming, so Tony got the screws on the side plating out and opened it up to take a look at the gears in the arm. Lately it'd been jamming if it over-extended, and no robot of his was going to jam, even if it _was_ for making pizza. "You think he meant it?" Bruce said at last.

"This is Loki we're talking about." Tony gripped the elbow joint firmly between two fingers and flexed it gently. He ran it through a quick range of motion test, one position after the next, and when nothing came up wrong, he clicked his tongue in irritation. "Dunno what he's supposed to have meant, but chances are probably about ninety-two percent the answer's no."

"Nostalgia," Bruce prompted. He walked around the table to peer down into the mechanical depths of the little robot, and Tony glanced up at him and grinned.

"Make that ninety-eight percent." And there it was- that little stick, when he brought the elbow too far forward, like a person trying to walk with chewing gum stuck to the soles of both shoes.

"So you don't believe him." Bruce clasped his hands behind his back, understated and unobtrusive, like a very well-behaved child on its best behavior in shop full of expensive china. Tony felt the sudden urge to add some glaring neon to him, just to make him catch the eye.

"He's the god of lies. Jarvis, measurements on the interior parts of this thing's left arm." A glowing green display appeared on command and Tony flicked through the numbers with his fingers, frowning. "If he could distill what comes out of his mouth and sell it, he would be richer than me in a week. Members of Congress would be breaking his door down_._" He glanced up from the readings for an instant to watch Bruce's face. "Why? Do _you_?"

"Not necessarily," Bruce hedged. He shifted to lean on the metal work table with one hip. "It just, uh. That's a weird thing to say. If he was lying, why not make it a better lie?"

Tony fixed him with a flat stare."So that you'd think, 'If he was lying, why not make it a better lie?'"

His teammate huffed a laugh. "I'm serious."

"So am I." A few quick finger swipes brought up the measurements for the right arm to compare, and Tony glanced back and forth between them.

"I did some reading, back when we first went up against this guy." The good doctor looked over to where his patient lay, still and quiet and doing his very best impression of someone who _hadn't_ waltzed into what passed for Tony's standard reality and tipped everything on its head. "There wasn't a whole lot- just legends, mostly. But he didn't actually sound all that bad."

"And then we fought him," Tony pointed out. "And he kind of was."

"No, really. The Norse gods were, well. A little harsh." Yeah, that Tony could buy. He'd seen Thor charge into battle, all flashing lights and bellowing doom. That hammer could do some damage. "There wasn't a whole lot of divine intervention; it didn't really happen that regular people got their prayers answered."

"And you're saying Loki was the exception? Our very own nemesis went around back in the day turning water into wine?" Tony stopped- glanced from one side of the number chart to the other and crowed in victory. "Jarvis, I want half a millimeter shaved off part 17AFGH in that left arm."

"Of course, sir." A section of the counter slid away to reveal an automated metal cutter, and Tony set the little robot beneath it.

"I'm saying there's a story about him stepping in to help out." There was a brief, high-pitched whine as the machinery activated, and the unneeded metal fell away an instant later. "A kid was going to get killed. The other gods more or less washed their hands of it."

It would have been laughable if it wasn't so completely ridiculous: Loki as some kind of 9th-century superhero. Head-over-ass as the idea seemed, though, Tony made himself think about it. He'd seen a hell of a lot since he'd started the whole defender of the peace gig; he'd spun up a random prize from the Wheel of Insanity just about every other week. Sure, it was likelier that Pepper planned on buying him a season pass to Disney World and telling him to take the month off, but strange things happened. He could concede that it was possible. Possible just didn't necessarily mean _likely_.

"You know," Tony pointed out, perfectly deadpan, "there's also a story about him giving birth to a horse."

Bruce held up his hands in a gesture of surrender and shook his head, smiling wryly. "I was only playing devil's advocate."

"Knock it off," Tony told him. "That's my job."

The metal cutter powered down and re-folded itself- slid back into the counter-top again."I guess that's about it for now," said Bruce, as Tony fitted the plating back onto the robot. "Come get me if he looks like he's having trouble during the night. I think he's going to be fine, though."

"You got it." His eyes were on the screws; his thoughts were on what toppings to put on the test-pizza to make sure this thing was working properly.

"Hey, Tony?" Bruce was almost to the door when he paused. "You want me to stay? In case, uh...?"

"Go get some sleep," he told his teammate. "If it looks like trouble, all I gotta do is hit the alarm. Half the city's superheroes'll be breathing down his neck before he can tell me what an insignificant mortal I am." The last of the screws twisted into place, and Tony stood the little robot back up on its legs.

"Not if he keeps it short." The man was serious, bless his worrywart little heart.

"Lucky us." Tony smirked his best I-don't-give-a-shit smirk. "Elizabethan prose takes awhile."

That earned him a soft laugh. "Well," Bruce told him, "you know where I am if you change your mind."

His footsteps faded down the hall, and Tony looked over the options on the pizza-bot. He had just finished selecting pepperoni and mushrooms and pressing the 'on' button when the god of mischief sat up on his cot. "Which of you warrants mocking," he asked in a voice that was rough and uneven, "for the absolute disaster you've made of my armor?"


End file.
